A Trust Betrayed (30 page)

Margaret thanked him, rose to leave him in peace.

“And Maggie.”

She turned.

“Have a care.”

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Besseta’s eyes were shadowed, but wide and staring, her cap crumpled as if she had slept in it, though she did not look otherwise as if she had slept.

“You are back?”

“I worried about the sleeping draft—that you might not measure it properly,” Celia said.

“It is untouched.”

“Agnes did not need it?”

Besseta flinched, began to close the door.

“I pray you,” Margaret said. “I have something to ask of you. I could not yesterday, not with James Comyn here, but he is busy with my uncle now.”

“What would you ask of me?”

“May I come within?”

Besseta glanced back into the room, hesitated, then opened the door. She looked weary to the bone.

The seats were still arranged as they had been yesterday. The weaving on the loom had not been touched.

Margaret settled on the bench. “I saw my husband a few days past, Besseta. Very near this house.”

Besseta separated her hands, clutching her skirt on either side. “I thought he was away.”

So she had known of Roger’s previous presence in town. But of course she would—from Jack.

“He had a terrible wound,” Margaret said. “Four long slashes on his left cheek. He told Janet Webster he had been attacked by a wolf.”

“A wolf ?” Besseta whispered, nervously smoothing out her skirt.

“But I did not believe the wolf story. And now I think I have found the weapon used against him.” Margaret brought out the wool comb from her scrip.

“My wool comb?” Besseta shook her head, glanced over at Celia. “She mocks me.”

“Why should she do that?” Celia asked.

“Besseta, what happened here?” Margaret asked.

“I shall scream.”

“For James Comyn’s men?”

Besseta jerked her head toward the door. “What do you mean?”

“They watch this house.”

“What?” Besseta jumped up, hastening to the window to close the shutter. “Why do they watch?”

“Why did you slash my husband’s face? What did he do to you?”

Besseta stood by her loom, shaking her head. “I know nothing.”

“But you do. Else why would this house be surrounded by James Comyn’s men? I must know, Besseta. Why did you injure Roger?”

Besseta checked the door, resumed her seat. “Jack is dead. Why should they care?” she asked dully.

“Harcar is dead, too,” said Margaret.

Besseta hugged herself and began to rock. “God grant him a long, frightening plunge into the eternal flames.”

“Why?”

“I know nothing.”

“What do you know of Harcar? You must know something to condemn him to hell.”

Celia began to rise.

“Don’t you move,” Besseta commanded. “You are taking advantage of my hospitality, both of you. Prying. Spying.”

“You give me cause, Besseta. You attacked my husband.”

“Why should I not protect myself ?” Besseta cried. “He shook me. He shouted and shook me until I thought my head would snap off. Then he dropped me like a sack of goods.”

“What was he shouting?”

“‘Jack loved you!’” Of course Jack loved me. He was my life and I was his. Of course he did. But Roger would not listen. He would . . . not . . . listen. I grabbed the wool comb and when he yanked me up again I raked him. I aimed for his eyes, but he moved too quickly.” Besseta was by turns sobbing and shouting by now.

Celia rose.

“Yes, see to Agnes if you can,” Margaret said softly. She did not know how she could speak so calmly. Her heart was pounding so hard it almost deafened her. Roger so violently attacking a woman? “Why was he angry, Besseta?” She could not see how Jack’s love for Besseta would drive Roger to lose control so.

“Jack is dead,” Besseta sobbed. “Nothing will bring him back. Nothing.”

There was a noise behind the draped doorway, a little cry.

Besseta’s head shot up. “What is that?” Her eyes were wild. “Do not touch her!” she shrieked as she lunged for the doorway.

Margaret grabbed her.

“Do not give her water!”

Besseta’s body was so taut in Margaret’s arms she wondered how the woman could still summon the breath to shout.

Celia suddenly burst from behind the cloth, her cap slightly askew, her hands flung out, palms forward. “Do not come, mistress.”

“What is it?”

“You did not feed her!” Besseta shrieked.

“Of course I did not feed her,” Celia said in a quiet but tremulous voice. “She is dead. And has been for many hours, by the looks of her.” She said more quietly to Margaret, “The lock on the door was simple, as you hoped.”

“Hold her,” Margaret said, shoving Besseta at Celia.

Margaret took up the lamp, ducked through the curtain. The light danced on the wattle walls, no daub to smooth the surfaces. The odor was stronger back here. Celia had left the door ajar. Margaret stepped within. The sound of her skirts brushing against the door made her jump. Was Agnes still breathing?

Only the woman’s arms and head were visible above the covers. The mouth was slightly open, the eyes staring. At Margaret? She crossed herself and moved closer, the lamplight flickering and giving life to the lyke of Agnes Fletcher. There—did her eyelids blink? Did her lips move?

Margaret forced herself to breathe and stand still long enough to prove to herself that the lyke was not stirring beneath the light. The cheeks had collapsed inward, the eyes had sunk in their sockets, the long bones of the fingers seemed to stretch the paper-thin flesh. Margaret hesitated, then pulled down the sheet, searching for wounds or scars that would explain the woman’s death. Agnes lay naked beneath the covers, her hipbones protruding, her knees like growths in the middle of her skinny legs. Just months ago this woman had carried a child in her womb. There were neither bruises nor wounds, no signs of boils or infection.

Besseta had starved her, of both food and water, Margaret guessed. How could she do such a thing? Besseta had been a gentle child, God-fearing. And she had come all this way to care for Agnes. But though Margaret could not fathom what might turn one sister against the other in such a horrible act, she could think of no other answer. She must be missing something.

The atmosphere in the room choking her, Margaret said a brief prayer over Agnes and then gratefully withdrew.

Besseta was now sitting on the stool on which Celia had sat. She stared at the floor, shoulders hunched.

“Shall I go for a priest?” Celia asked, hovering close to the seated woman.

“Father Francis,” Margaret said, making a great effort to keep her voice calm. “Is it Father Francis you would like to see, Besseta?”

The woman shook her head. “No one.”

Margaret nodded to Celia to go. Devil or not, Besseta’s fate was not in Margaret’s hands.

She forced herself to resume her seat across from Besseta. “Come, tell me what happened so that I can know what to do.”

Besseta raised her eyes. “You have seen her?”

Margaret nodded.

“She is at peace?”

Why would you care?
“She is.”

A long, indrawn breath. “I knew that Agnes hid their robes and the men themselves when they asked, but I did not think she cared so much.”

“What robes? Friar’s robes?” asked Margaret, confused.

Besseta glanced at the outer door. “James Comyn is truly watching?”

“His men, yes. Why, Besseta?”

“I loved Jack so. You can’t imagine what it was like. I woke and he was twitching and shaking in my bed. But his blood was all over me, all over the bed, all over Agnes. She had slit his throat. She had killed my Jack. My God, my God,” Besseta moaned, burying her face in her hands.

The truth was so unexpected, Margaret took a moment to absorb it. Agnes Fletcher. Dear God. Margaret crossed herself. Agnes Fletcher had murdered Jack. Those gaping wounds—a woman’s work. Just weeks ago that emaciated corpse had summoned such strength. Sweet Jesus, Agnes had done that to Jack. Margaret was strangely numb—having seen Agnes’s shrunken shell, she could not summon the hate for the woman that the act deserved. She wished for a strong drink, for both her and Besseta. She could not imagine what it was doing to the woman to relive the horror. “Do you have anything to drink in the house?”

Besseta shook her head.

Awkwardly, with trembling hands, Margaret searched through Celia’s basket. She said a silent prayer of thanks to find a flask of wine. She drank a little, then handed the flask to Besseta. “Come. Tell me everything. You must long to. You must tell someone.”

Besseta began to drink greedily. Margaret pulled the flask away. It would not do for her to sleep.

In a little while, the wine composing her enough to speak, Besseta began to pour out her tale. Margaret sat quietly, urging when the woman hesitated, nodding when the huge eyes stared into hers.

Agnes and Tom, her husband, had been staunch supporters of Balliol, deeply involved in Comyn’s campaign to restore his kinsman to the Scottish throne. And even after Tom’s death, Agnes had remained committed to the Balliol cause. While carrying her child she could do little, but she did what she could. When Besseta arrived, unlooked for, to care for her widowed, pregnant sister, Agnes had tried to continue in secret, but soon enough had to tell her sister what she was doing. Until Jack’s arrival all was well, though Agnes’s deep mourning after Tom’s death caused her to sicken and lose the child. She began to slip away. Besseta slept with Agnes in the bedchamber, Jack on the pallet in the small anteroom.

Several days before Davy and Harry were to slip into the abbey Agnes had taken out the friar’s robes to air them and steam out some of the wrinkles—they must look like proper friars to gain entrance to the abbey. Agnes was beginning to regain her strength, but the work exhausted her. Besseta finished the chore for Agnes while she napped, and Jack began asking questions about the plans.

“I told him too much. I did not realize the danger at the time, but the following day I saw him talking to Harcar in the market square. I had heard the rumors that Harcar sold information to the English and told Jack to avoid him. But Jack laughed at me.

“Harry, Davy, and two other men came the afternoon of that awful day to take their robes. James Comyn came with them, to thank Agnes for all she had done for them. Jack and I were told to stay in the bedroom. He persuaded me that as we were soon to wed we could bed. He used all his charm to woo me. Such sweet words . . .” She was quiet a moment. “Sometime, I don’t know when, Agnes listened at the door, heard enough to understand Jack had betrayed them. Comyn had returned to tell her what had happened at Holyrood, she had just learned of Davy’s and Harry’s deaths, but I noticed nothing but Jack. He was so beautiful.” Besseta glanced up at Margaret.

“Yes, he was like an angel,” Margaret whispered. “What could Agnes have heard?”